I've no idea how long we've been here, but already it feels like years. The black-clad soldiers burned our farm and took my entire family. On a black, moonless night, they laid us upon stone altars encrusted with black tallow and caked with the blood of countless victims, and one by one, they put us to the knife. This is what being damned is. We're chattel for the Daedra. How long will it be before even the echoes fade?